The People Out There
by Gale Force
Summary: An ongoing series, in which actors from NCIS find themselves mysteriously transported into the show and perhaps vice versa. This story is now complete. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

The People Out There

_"Has the subject been acquired?"_

_"Yes, oh Great One."_

_"Has the Teleinvisichronomicon been properly charged?"_

_"Yes, oh Great One."_

_"Very well. Prepare to activate on my signal."_

Cote de Pablo breathed in deeply and then out slowly, as she concentrated on the fight choreographer, Ray Austin, who was demonstrating the moves she would place on her antagonist in the scene they were about to film.

It was irritating, she thought, that she worked so hard on her fight skills – she'd been studying judo and karate since she had accepted the role of Ziva David three years ago – and yet the way the film editors cut these fight scenes, it was impossible for the audience to tell what was really happening..."all done with cameras," they'd scoff as her opponents would hit the ground...

Her co-stars in the scene, Michael Weatherly and Mark Harmon, were paying less attention...they would only have to stand on the sidelines with guns aimed at her in a determined manner while she took care of the bad guy.

"Okay, Cote," Ray called. "Let's you and Sam go through the moves once, slowly."

Cote moved forward into the cameras, and gave Sam, the actor playing the villainous Goldfish, a smile. He was a foot taller than she was, and probably a hundred pounds heavier.

"Now," said Ray out loud as Sam placed his hands on Cote's shoulders. "Cote, you raise both hands and knock his arms off," she did so. "Then Sam, you grab her again and body slam her into the ground..."

Slowly, Sam held her while he moved his leg behind hers, swinging it out to break her balance and then lowering her to the ground.

"Cote, you reach up with your leg, hook his neck, pull him off, and roll on top of him.

Cote did as she was bid, and once on top of Sam, slow-motion punched him in the throat.

"Okay, Cote, great. Now, let's try it for real."

Sam helped her to her feet, then, at Ray's call of "Action," they went through the motions again. Not at full speed - the camera would be speeded up to make it seem as if it were happening incredibly fast. Nevertheless, the back of Cote's head hit the floor with a thunk.

_Now._

Stars going off in her eyes like miniature nova, Cote reached up with her leg, hooked it around the neck of the man on top of her, and pulled him backward, simultaneously rolling up on top of him, while drawing her arm back for a killing strike.

Then she froze and looked at him, for something was wrong.

It was Sam's face... but somehow, it was not Sam....

"Okay, Ziva," came Mark Harmon's voice. "We'll take it from here."

Cote waited for Ray to call, "Cut," but no such call came.

"C'mon, Ziva, let him up," came Michael's voice. She felt his arm on hers as he helped her up.

Cote looked around. The vast banks of lights that illuminated the set were gone. The _set _was gone. All of the people who surrounded the set were gone... she was standing in a room with a ceiling, and four walls, and Mark Harmon had flipped Sam on his back and was applying handcuffs while Sam was swearing, quite loudly and quite inventively.

Cote blinked. Her head was pounding...she must have hit the floor harder than she thought...she must be hallucinating.

"You okay, Ziva?" said Michael, looking at her with concern.

She stared at him. "My... head," she faltered.

"Not quite as hard as you thought it was, eh Ziva?" said Mark. "DiNozzo, help her out to the car. I've got this dirt bag."

Mark jerked Sam's arm and they led the way out of the room, down a corridor, out a door, and out into the bright sunlight. Cote, with Michael at her side, followed them.

Cote blinked at the sunlight and looked around...she had no idea where she was...she should be at the studios out in California and instead...buildings everywhere, a street, cars lining the street, no cyclorama to be seen.

What the hell was going on?

"Ziva, you'd better let me drive," said Michael. They had come to the dark sedan that they used for all their exernal shots. Cote was watching Mark, who had gone on to yet another car and was putting Sam in the back seat."

"Ziva!" barked Michael.

Cote opened the door, got into the seat, put on her seatbelt, and rested her head in her hand.

"Jesus, Ziva, what's the matter?"

She felt a hand on her arm. Opening her eyes, she saw Michael looking at her with concern on his face.

And yet, somehow, not Michael.

Cote forced a smile.

"Sorry. I"ve got a bit of a headache. Just let me sit her very, very quietly."

And she closed her eyes again.

What was going on? Had she got a concussion? Because she was definitely hallucinating. Michael was calling her Ziva, Mark had called her Ziva, and Sam...if he'd tried swearing like that on national television they'd have washed his mouth out with soap, not to mention fining him - and the show - thousands of the dollars.

And now she was in a car and instead of being in it for a few seconds while they were filming establishing shots, they were driving on and on as if they were actually going somewhere.

Cote lowered her hand to see where they were going...then placed her head in her hand again. She had just seen the Capitol dome.

She was in Washington, DC.

She was riding next to not Michael Weatherly, but rather Tony DiNozzo, and the man she'd been fighting was not Sam the actor but Sam the dirtbag, and Mark Harmon must actually be Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

This couldn't be happening. She'd hit her head too hard, she was probably laying on the ground right now and would wake up any second.

"Hey, Ziva, we're here," said Mi – Tony, softly.

Cote got out of the car and looked around. She'd had a tour of the NCIS headquarters once, when she'd first started. Indeed, the whole cast had been brought down to look at the city and the buildings where they ostensibly worked. And this was definitely the NCIS headquarters.

She followed Tony DiNozzo into the building, and after a corridor or two, they came out into a large area which she recognized immediately – it was exactly like the set in Hollywood.

And sitting in the desk one over from that belong to DiNozzo, the baby faced Sean Murray...Timothy McGee.

Cote approached her own desk and sat down behind it. She reached out, touched the desk...very solid...

She looked up to see Tony staring at her. "Ziva, maybe you'd better go get yourself checked out."

"I'm fine."

"Well, have an aspirin at least. Probie!"

McGee stared at both of them, then dug into a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Tylenol. He got up, came over to them, handed her the bottle.

Cote poured three of the gelcaps into her hand, then downed them without benefit of water.

"Thank you, Timothy," she said.

"Sure...Ziva." said Timothy. He looked at Tony, who only shrugged and made one of his comic faces.

Tony returned to his desk, Timothy to his, and Cote sat behind the desk belonging to Ziva.

She felt...different. Cote reached across her body and felt her bicep. She had been in shape...but there was muscle there..more than she was accustomed to. She drummed her fists on her thighs...solid muscle....she was in the body of someone who had worked out and lifted weights for years.

Silence. Cote looked up. Tony was staring at her with a puzzled expression. She glanced over at McGee...who was absorbed in paperwork at his desk...she knew he'd been looking at her too.

At that point Mark Harmon...no.... Leroy Jethro Gibbs.... made his characteristic entrance, striding into the room.

He stopped in front of her desk and stared down at her.

"Are you all right, Ziva?" he asked in his calm, quiet voice.

Cote could only stare up at him. Gibbs. Jesus...Harmon was handsome and charming...but this man...he simply exuded sexiness...

"Ziva?"

"I"m fine. Gibbs." said Cote.

"All right. Fitzpatrick is in Interrogation. It's you and me. DiNozzo, you observe. Let's go."

Cote found herself standing in the elevator between Gibbs and DiNozzo. It was as if she were looking at Mark Harmon and Michael Weatherly, but with an extra layer over them...the toughness one would expect from real NCIS agents rather than actors. But still...the charm and the sex appeal was just a bit overpowering...must be this tremendous headache...the Tylenol was not working at all...

Cote followed Gibbs into the interrogation room. Sam...no, Fitzpatrick, as Gibbs had called him, was already there, seated on the opposite side of the table from the observation window, his hands still handcuffed behind his back.

Gibbs sat down opposite him. Cote took up a position at the rear of the room, because she didn't think she could stand to sit within a foot of the real Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Gibbs directed a puzzled look at her, but only shrugged and turned back to Fitzpatrick.

The interrogation began.

If the man sitting there had been the actor Sam Brown, then Cote would have thought he was giving the performance of his life. But instead it was some dirtbag named Fitzpatrick, with a foul mouth and doubtless even fouler deeds to his credit.

But Cote couldn't keep her attention on him. Even with that effluence there...Gibbs presence was just too overpowering. God he was sexy.

Cote clamped her lips down on a chuckle, turning it into a fixed smile.

She'd often stood like this, in the same room with Harmon, admiring his acting technique and the sure way he handled himself, for all that he was giving lines and in real life was the sweetest and gentlest of men...and yet here he was, not him but Gibbs...and all that power...

Cote couldn't stop a chuckle. Immediately she clamped a hand over her mouth.

Fitzpatrick couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her. Well, Gibbs was doubtless going through the whole spiel about how she was a Mossad agent who'd as soon kill him as look at him, and could do remarkable things with a knife...

Did she have a knife, by the way?

Cote reached to her belt, and yes, there it was! She extracted it from her sheath and began to clean her fingernails, desperate to do something that would take her mind off lascivious thoughts.

Just think about it, though, she thought, her lips curving into a grin as she thought of what it would be like...to actually work next to Gibbs...to think that Tony DiNozzo was real. And Abby...she'd have to find out if Abby was still the Goth queen...

And DiNozzo...she'd have the upper hand on him, no question...

Cote chuckled softly...

"All right, Ziva," Gibbs said, "If you're so anxious to get started, I'll leave you alone with Mr. Fitzpatrick."

Cote stared at him, sudden horror sending a cold chill down from her heart to her stomach.

Gibbs had stood up, walked around the table, now he suddenly bent down and placed his lips next to Fitzpatrick's ear.

Cote couldn't hear what he said, but Fitzpatrick, who hadn't seemed to be able to take his eyes off her anyway, suddenly said, "Okay, okay! I'll tell you what you want to know. Just don't leave me alone with her."

"Oh, c'mon Gibbs," Cote said, getting into the spirit of the thing. "Leave us alone. And take his cuffs off, it will be more fun that way."

Gibbs only smiled that slight smile of his, and returned to his seat.

"I'll take it from here, Ziva."

Cote allowed herself a sigh of disappointment, as she thought Ziva would give it, then replaced her knife in its sheath and walked out of the room.

She stood in the hallway, getting her balance....

_Now._

Suddenly there was an overwhelming pain in her head, and she slowly dropped to her knees, then rolled over onto the floor and blinked up at the lights and the faces staring down at her.

"Cote!" cried Sam. "Jesus, girl, are you okay? My hand slipped...I..."

Cote grinned. "Don't worry about it, Sam. Just wait until the end of this scene, I will have my revenge. Help me up."

Relieved , the cast members backed up and Cote and Sam were alone again in the spotlight.

She'd known it. Just a hallucination, brought on by that bump on the head. But damn, it was too bad. To have lived the life of Ziva David for a day....that would have been something...

And "Action!" cried the director.

And the scene went on...


	2. Chapter 2

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first story in this series. It really helps my creativity when I know people like it (or have suggestions on how to fix it if they don't like it, or how to proceed, etc. etc..)

I've decided to post additional stories under this same title, rather than starting a separate story for each installment, as had been my original plan.

So, this is "Chapter Two" - the Mark Harmon story. As requested, it's a bit more ambitious.

If you like it, please do review. If you don't like it, please give constructive criticism.

**II. More People Out There**

_**"Has our next subject been acquired?"**_

_**"Yes, oh Great One."**_

_**"Has the Teleinvisichronomicon been properly charged?"**_

_**"Yes, oh Great One."**_

_**"Very good. Prepare to activate on my signal."**_

I.

Mark Harmon, who had been the starting quarterback for UCLA for two years in the 70s, enjoyed playing flag football on the weekends. It was fun, it was relaxing, and it helped keep him in shape for the demands of his show, _NCIS_.

It was a friendly game, and everyone, men and women, joined in. Occasionally his friends from the cast and crew of the show would stop by and participate. Indeed, on this occasion, Cote de Pablo was on his team, and Michael Weatherly was on the other side.

Pam Dawber, his wife of over twenty years, was not there. She didn't play, but normally roamed the sidelines cheering him on, supervising the giant ice chests full of pop and beer and the barbecue afterward. But today a friend had called her, who was feeling poorly, and Pam had gone over to her house to cheer her up.

Mark called out the play, cried "Hut, hut, hut," and then "Hike!"

Jeff hiked the ball, then straightened up, looking from side to side to see who he needed to block. Mark dropped back, looking for receivers. His team was down by three, time was running out, he needed a first down or his team would have to give up the ball. Cote was streaking down the field and waving her hand signaling she was open.

Frankie (short for Francesca), on the other side of the line, was well aware that this was flag football, but she was intent on winning the game and she had to stop Mark. So she juked past Jeff as if he were standing still (a feat which she automatically registered she would rub into his face at the barbecue after the game) and grabbed for Mark. Mark twisted away, Francesca kept reaching out as she fell, and her hands got tangled in with his feet. Mark fell backwards, his head hit the dirt, and...

_**Now.**_

He hadn't hit his head very hard, just a bump, thought Mark, yet he felt a blinding pain. He tried to blink away the stars, but he could hardly see. After another few blinks, however, the pain in his head subsided and his eyesight had cleared.

And he was on his hands and knees. How had _that _happened? He'd been on his back...he didn't remember rolling over, let alone getting to his hands and knees...

He looked upward, and found himself looking up into the faces of Cote and Michael. He looked past them - there was no one else. The field was empty.

"You okay, Gibbs?" asked Cote.

"Of course," said Mark, getting to his feet easily. Wait a minute. Had she just called him Gibbs? Mark grinned. Occasionally they'd slip up on set, calling each other by their real names when they were filming. He'd never been called by his role name when out in public. At least...not by his fellow cast members!

Mark looked around, and puzzlement made his grin fade. Where was Jeff? Where was Francesca? Where were the other twenty people who'd just been here? And what had happened to Michael and Cote? Both of them were wearing different clothing than they had been, and neither one was wearing a flag. Cote was carrying a football, though, and they both looked as if they'd been running - sweaty of skin and hair.

The field was different, too....the grass browner, and the weather... much cooler than it had been. Too cold for California.

"What happened, Boss?" said Michael. "One second you were standing there, next second you just dropped down like you'd been punched."

"I must have hit my head harder than I thought," said Mark. "I'm feeling just a bit woozy."

"When did you hit your head, Gibbs?" asked Cote with concern.

Mark stared at them. What had Michael just said... he'd been _standing up _and suddenly fallen? And why were both of them calling him Gibbs?

Mark did a slow rotation, and saw a skyline that damn well looked like Washington DC, not California. What the hell....?

"Wait a minute," he said, snapping his fingers. "You're gaslighting me, aren't you?"

Cote looked at him, bewildered. "Gas ... lighting?" She glanced at Michael.

"_Gaslight_!" said Michael happily. "1944. Charles Boyer. Ingrid Bergman. Boyer tries to drive Bergman insane, by playing tricks on her in their house, in particular by claiming that he doesn't notice the gaslight dimming and brightening, always at six p.m. Hence the term, to gaslight. Boss, I never would have thought you would know that term, let alone the movie!"

"Why would we be trying to Gaslight you, Gibbs?" asked...God, it had to be, Ziva.

What would Gibbs do? Make a throwaway comment and walk away. "Some people would do anything to win a football game, Ziva," he said, and walked away.

Where the hell was he walking to? That bench over there, with the cooler and a couple of footballs beside it. There'd be beer in there, he had no doubt.

And as he had suspected.... Mark picked up a bottle, shook the ice off it, twisted off the cap, and drank long and deep.

Michael and Cote had followed him.

Mark wiped a hand over his face. He felt perfectly fine..no ringing in his ears, no residual pain from that little head bump, nothing to indicate that he was having hallucinations or dreaming or anything.

But that _must _be what had happened. He'd knocked his head, now he was dreaming, and he'd be waking up any minute now. Until that happened, he'd better just go with the flow.

He looked around at the scenery again. There, across the street, was the NCIS building, and this must be the recreational field they used. He'd seen it, a couple of years ago, when he and the cast and crew of the show had been given tours of the building. That'd been an enjoyable time, actually. They'd spent a couple of days undergoing the same kind of training the NCIS agents did, on how to carry firearms, how to shoot them, clean them, how to investigate rooms, and so on.

"Let's say I've forgotten the last five minutes," Mark said. "Fill me in on what's going on here."

Michael and Cote exchanged glances, then Michael said, "We're practicing for the sixth annual Christmas charity flag football match between the FBI and the NCIS, boss. Ziva and I showed up early, but not as early as you. _I_ did it because I love football, by the way, I'm sure Ziva was just after brownie points. Any-_ouch_-way, you've been throwing us spirals for the last ten minutes. You'd just thrown one to Ziva, and I was standing here watching you. Then, wham. You just went down on all fours. We came up to you in a hurry, and that brings us up to date."

"Weird," said Mark, just for something to say.

"When did you hit your head, Gibbs?" Ziva asked again. "Perhaps you have a concussion?"

"Don't worry about it. Ziva." said Mark. "I just mis-spoke. Well, let's get back to work." He finished the beer, extended his hand for the football she held, and gestured them to head on down the field.

Before they could do so, his cell phone rang.

He dug into his pocket, pulled out the phone, flipped it open. Timothy McGee was the ID of the caller. Mark sighed. He held it to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Boss, I just thought I'd let you know. A package arrived for you at the office today. It's marked Urgent. Did you want to..."

He tailed off.

Mark thought very quickly. He wanted to get away from Cote and Michael -- or Ziva and Tony, _whatever _– give himself time to think and hopefully wake up from this dream...use this as an excuse. "Sure," he said, "I'll come in."

He flipped the phone closed. "That was McGee," he said. "I've got to go to the office."

"Do you need us, Boss?"

"No," said Mark. "Stay here, wait for the rest of the crew. You guys need a lot of work if we're to beat the FBI."

He didn't know if that were true or not, but it was a Gibbs-like thing to say.

"I also think I'd better take the rest of the day off. Just to be safe. So carry on without me."

He then turned to look at the NCIS building, took a deep breath, and headed across.

Behind him, out of earshot, Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David looked at each other.

"That wasn't like Gibbs," Ziva said quietly. "He'd never take a day off, 'just to be safe.' He'd stay here til he hulled over."

"Keeled over," Tony corrected. "You're right. Maybe he just remembered he had a date, or something."

"Should we go after him...?"

At that point two groups of NCIS agents and office workers converged and arrived, and there was an exchange of greetings and banter. Tony and Zia shrugged shoulders at each other, and then turned to concentrate on football.

II.

He'd been recognized by a security guard when he'd entered the building...but the guard had called back when he'd tried to walk past, to show his ID, which fortunately he had in his pocket.

The lobby surroundings looked familiar...they'd been in some episode or another, and so by moving slowly he was able, eventually, to find his way to the command center. Sean...make that McGee, was waiting for him, also dressed in sweats, and started talking as soon as he stepped onto the main floor.

"Hi, Boss, sorry to call you on a Saturday, but I'd come in early to clean up some details before getting out to the field. I'm working on a couple of interesting algorithms that will help us track phones faster , and..and...I." he came to a stop.

There was a long beat, then Mark said, "And what, McGee?" in his best Gibbs-like manner.

"Uh, sorry, I was just waiting for you to raise an eyebrow...or tell me to get to the point...but you never...raised..."

"Get to the point, McGee."

"Right. Well, Cheryl brought in the mail, and she pointed out that you had a UPS package marked Urgent and For Your Eyes Only, and I thought you might like to know that, seeing as how you were just across the street, and...and..."

Mark had continued to just stare at him, without maneuvering his eyebrows in any way.

"And what?"

"And...I was waiting for you to interrupt again..."

Mark gave his Gibbs "slight grin." Just the merest upward twitch of his lips to indicate amusement.

He turned away from McGee, who had Sean Murray's mannerisms down pat...or was it the other way around...and sat behind what he knew was his desk. Indeed, there was a brown-paper wrapped package there, about 10 X 8 X 4. The size of a ream of paper.

The sender's name was Richard Bradford. Not a character name he remembered from within the show..

Mark surreptitiously wiped his damp palms on his sweats, then opened up the top right hand drawer of his desk. Everything in it looked exactly like the props in that drawer on the NCIS set...he took out the knife, opened it, and slit open the tape sealing the package. He lifted up the cover, to find inside a scroll. Carefully he took it out and unrolled it. It was of some type of light fabric, and painted on it was a landscape scene, with blue lines for rivers, brown lines for mountains, and so on. It was very pretty, and looked very old, but doubtless some military person had picked it up in a BX or PX somewhere in Japan (for it resonated to him of Nippon) and had decided to send it to him. To Gibbs, that is.

Well, he'd leave it here, for the real Gibbs to find in the morning.

He was going to go home, go to sleep, and hope that when he woke up, it'd be in his own, real bed in the real world.

Mark looked up to see McGee, anxiously hovering.

"You did good, McGee," Mark said, as he closed up the box and placed it in the right hand drawer. "Remind me on Monday where I put that, okay?"

McGee's forehead creased. "Uh...what, Boss?"

"Oh, never mind. Anyway, I'm going home."

"But....what about the football practice?"

"That's still going on. In fact, you should get over to the field right now."

"Uh...yes, Boss."

McGee sketched a bit of salute, and hurried from the room.

Mark rubbed his hands over his face.

Home. How was he going to get home?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Driver's license. Address on the license. Easy.

But...how to get there...and in what?

He knew what his car in the show looked like..but he had no idea _where _it was.

Hell, he'd call a cab.

Thus it was that, fifteen minutes later, DiNozzo, David and McGee, who were bunched together arguing about who was most inept at running routes, and Abby, who was in charge of the liquid refreshment on the sidelines and leading the cheers, witnessed their Boss exit from the NCIS building and, instead of walking into the parking lot for his car, get into a Yellow Cab that drove off down the street.

Each one thought to himself, putting it more or less profanely depending on their personality: _What's going on with Gibbs?_

TO BE CONTINUED.


	3. Chapter 3

**II. More People Out There**

Part II

_**"Pssst. Alpha."**_

_**"What is it, Gamma?"**_

_**"Have you ever wondered about the Teleinvisichronomicon?"**_

_**"What is there about it to wonder?"**_

_**"Well..where our subject's alter egos go when we Charge them, for one."**_

_**"Ah. No, Alpha. I've never wondered about that."**_

_**"**_**I**_** wonder."**_

_**"Well, stop. I'm sure the Great One knows what happens to them."**_

_**If Alpha had had a head, he'd have shaken it ruefully. The Great One knew everything, obviously, but he did not share knowledge with his minions. If one was to gain knowledge, one must do it on one's own..**_

_**The Great One, in a distant part of the Observation Chamber, doing the equivalent of cooking the equivalent of popcorn, had auditory capabilities that on Earth would have been described as keen as a cat's. If he'd had a forehead, it would have creased in thought. **_**I wonder what **_**does **_**happen to them? Perhaps that should be an experiment for another time.**

I.

The taxi dropped Mark off in front of the address he had requested, and then drove away.

Mark looked at it. A single story, relatively small house - the kind of house you'd expect a man with three ex-wives to have. Just big enough to have a basement in which one could built a succession of wooden boats of varying sizes. The lawn, surrounded by a wooden fence, was closely mowed... there were no trees, no bushes, no flowers to mar that greenery.

Taking a deep breath, Mark opened the gate and walked up a neat brick path to the front door. He pulled out his key chain, and fumbled a bit until he found the right key. Letting himself into the house, he closed and locked the door behind him.

Mark felt somewhat melancholy, as he walked through the rooms, halfway expecting a slow, sad song to accompany him. He knew the character of Gibbs intimately, of course, but he and his foibles had been created to serve the needs of the TV show. But now, if _this _experience was to be believed, Gibbs was a real character...a real person, rather, who could really suffer at the murders of his first wife and child by terrorists, friend Pacchi in the first season, Cait in the second, Cassidy in the... had it been the third? Then Jenny...

So many deaths...of people who had depended on Gibbs to keep them safe.

Mark laughed softly. This _wasn't _real, he chided himself. _Gibbs _wasn't real. He was just dreaming, and he was going to go to bed and when he woke up, he'd be home, with Pam beside him.

He found his way to the bedroom and laid down on the king-sized bed, fully dressed. He closed his eyes, and waited for sleep to come.

II.

When Mark woke up it was in the darkness of night. He reached out a hand...no Pam beside him.

He reached out his other hand, found the cord of the lamp by the bed, turned it on. A clock on the night stand told him it was two minutes past midnight.

He was still... here. Still in Gibbs' house.

Mark turned out the light and went back to sleep.

III.

On Sunday afternoon, the members of NCIS who were participating in the soon-to-come FBI/NCIS flag football game, were gathered at the practice field.

"He's five minutes late," Abby commented worriedly to Tony, Ziva and McGee. "Something must be wrong." They all nodded. Gibbs was _never _late.

"His car is in the parking lot..." Tony commented.

"But he left it there yesterday," Ziva finished.

Tony brought out his cellphone, and, while the others watched, speed-dialed Gibb's number.

At the second ring, it was picked up. "Yeah."

"Boss?"

"Uh...yeah?"

"Boss...um...it's past noon. We're waiting for you."

"Waiting...where?"

"Um...at the football field, Boss. You were supposed to be quarterbacking us today."

"Right. Right. I'll be there in a few minutes."

Slowly, Tony replaced his cellphone in his pocket.

"He'll be here in a few minutes," he reported.

"Maybe we should call Ducky, and ask him to meet us here," said Ziva. "Gibbs spoke yesterday about hitting his head...he could have concussion, be having periodic bouts of amnesia."

"Is that possible?" said Tony. "_Periodic _bouts of amnesia?"

"Ducky would know." said Abby. "I think we should call him."

Tony held up a hand. "Let's wait until Gibbs gets here. Maybe he just got really involved with his boat. You know how he is."

'He's never been so involved that he's forgotten an appointment. Even if it is just for football practice," Ziva pointed out, and Abby nodded. Tony nodded as well. He didn't believe that explanation either.

IV.

After Tony's phone call, Mark got out of bed and went into the bathroom, where he stared at himself in the mirror for long seconds. Then he leaned forward and looked _past _himself into the mirror world. Was that where he was supposed to be?

He couldn't just sit in this house and go crazy wondering what the hell was going on...although maybe a stint in the basement working on the boat down there might do him some good...

But maybe if he returned to the "scene of the crime" as it were, the football field, _something _would happen that would snap him back into his own reality.

He had to give it a try.

So he called a cab and told the driver to take him to the NCIS building.

He found the crew he knew - McGee, Tony, Ziva and Abby waiting for him, as well as a dozen other people who apparently also worked at the office in various functions, and who knew him. He waved vaguely at the "Hiyas," that greeted him from these unknowns.

Abby came up and hugged him. "Gibbs, how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he told her, giving the smile that he reserved for Abby. "Sorry I'm late. Let's run some routes."

Soon he had his team - except for Abby, who continued to roam the sidelines and cheer everyone on as they practiced - running down the field, as he sent pin-point spirals their way.

Tony and Ziva, happening to meet up at one point, exchanged a little dialog.

"Who knew Gibbs to have such a great arm," Tony gasped, catching his breath.

"It's impressive." agreed Ziva. "He must have played in college, eh?"

"Probably a four-year starter," Tony said.

"He's being rather silent, isn't he," commented Ziva as they trotted back towards Gibbs. "Not screaming at us for running slow, or running the wrong route. I don't think McGee has heard a cross word."

"Yeah," said Tony. "Too silent."

After a couple of hours, practice wound down.

As the entire group milled around, a spectator who had wandered by came up to Mark.

"That was impressive work, sir. Where'd you play?"

Mark, tired, answered truthfully, "UCLA."

"Argh!," said the man. "I'm a Trojan myself. But that sure was pretty." They shook hands and exchanged grins and the man walked off.

"Can I give you a lift home, Boss?" said Tony. "I noticed you came here by cab. Something wrong with your car?"

"No," said Mark. "I didn't feel like driving yesterday, that's all. I'm going to spend some time in the office, now, though."

"Come on, Gibbs," said Abby persuasively "We're all going to the Dive to slam back a few."

"I've got work to do, Abby," Mark said. "Give me a raincheck." And then he turned and strode away, Gibbs like.

The solution to his car problem was obvious, Mark thought. He'd wait a few hours until the parking lot was practically empty - the car that remained would be his car.

V.

Monday morning rolled round, and Mark Harmon woke up in despair. _Still _in Gibbs house. This was far beyond a dream or a hallucination now. Had he gone insane..or if not insane simply delusional?

He couldn't stay here...couldn't escape anywhere...the NCIS people would come looking for him. He had to go in.

He shaved, dressed, and drove to the NCIS building. He sat inside his car for some minutes..he couldn't go in there without a coffee cup, but he couldn't face the thought of coffee today...but he'd be found out if he poured his Jack Daniels in it and drank that throughout the day. In the cup holder was an empty logoed cup, and he plucked that up.

Showing his badge, Mark walked past the guard, then stopped in at the rest room to fill the cup full of water.

As luck would have it, Tony DiNozzo walked into the rest-room and saw what he was doing.

"All right," said DiNozzo. "Who are you and what have you done with the real Jethro Gibbs?"

It was just a joke, Mark knew. He'd heard that phraseology before. But just for a second, he'd frozen, and his eyelids flickered, and he saw Tony's face change.

_Say something clever_, he told himself.

"I'm going to pull something on Abby, DiNozzo, what the hell do you think?" he said, crisply.

"Sure, Boss, I knew it was something like that."

Mark brushed past him and out into the hallway, and then down to the"Command Center" where McGee and Ziva were already seated.

"Quiet day today, Gibbs," said Ziva in a disgruntled tone. "So far. We'll be able to catch up on our paper work."

"Good," said Mark shortly. When he used that tone of voice, as Gibbs, that was a signal that no one was to approach him...and no one did. Out of the corner of his eye he saw DiNozzo enter the room and take his seat, without his usual banter. _That _didn't bode well.

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. _Hell_.

_**"Oh, Great One?"**_

_**"Yes, Alpha?"**_

_**"The subject is registering signs of acute distress. His brainwaves are starting to spike. I think he has been Charged too long. Should I..."**_

_**"No. I want to see how this ends."**_

_**"But...the distress...his mind is beginning to rebel..."**_

_**"Yes, he needs something...someone...to ground him to this reality..."**_

_**"**_**Another **_**subject? Two at one time?!!**_

_**Yes. Why not? But it must be an appropriate subject. Of course, I know. That one. There. Charge. Now."**_

_**"Yes, Oh Great One."**_

Had anyone been listening outside the Forensics realm of Abby Sciuto, they would have heard the sound of knees hitting floor, a brief silence, and then a "What the he... Oh... My.... God. No way!!!! Get out!"

And then, a reverent whisper, "This so absolutely rocks."

Then, "This is soooo cool. Oh... my ... god."

The form of Abby Sciuto then runs out of her office and towards the medical realm of Ducky Mallard, outside of which she hesitates. If she wishes to confirm that what has happened is real, she thinks perhaps she doesn't want to prove this by walking in on a body laid out on a slab with various internal organs showing.

So she scurries up the stairs - too excited to take the elevator - to the main floor, and strides into the main room where she looks around with typical grinning face but with extra radiant eyes as she takes it all in.

Then, down the stairs and into the floor and leaning over the desk of Ziva, gazing deep into her eyes.

"Ziva!" she says. Ziva looks at her, only very slightly surprised because, after all, it is Abby.

She then turns and leans over Tony's desk, looking at him. "Tony," she breathes.

Tony looks at her, also only slightly puzzled. Besides, he's got more important things on his mind.

Then, Abby goes to Gibb's desk, and Mark has just gotten up because waves of panic have started washing over him. Abby stares deep into his eyes, and recognizes something there. "Mark?" she mouths at him.

Mark, suddenly grounded, stares at her, and then suddenly grabs her and hugs her with all his strength, burying his head into her shoulder.

This act is witnessed with various thoughts and emotions by McGee, DiNozzo and Ziva.

And...

_**"First subject has recovered his equilibrium. All brain waves now showing normal! Well done, Oh Great One!"**_

_**"Thank you, Alpha. Let the experiment proceed."**_


	4. Chapter 4

**II. More People Out There**

Part III

I.

Mark walked with Pauley back down to her sanctum, leaving McGee, Ziva and Tony exchanging glances. Mark took special care to pick up the water-filled coffee cup and tilt it in Tony's direction as they passed by his desk, and Tony quirked his eyebrows as if appreciating the joke that was apparently in store for Abby.

Ziva was thinking that that embrace between Abby and Gibbs had been a little bit too...too something. They hadn't lip-locked or anything (she had learned that expression from Tony, of course), and she knew that Gibbs and Abby had always enjoyed a special relationship, but there had been something about that embrace...Gibbs had held her so desperately.

There was a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach... jealousy?, Ziva wondered. She had always found Gibbs attractive...that silvery hair and those blue eyes, not to mention his skills with rifle and the martial arts...but he'd always seemed so dead set against co-workers dating...and now...was his and Abby's relationship progressing to a different level?...and if so, why Abby and not _her_?! Although Abby's eccentricities were charming in a certain way, surely a gung-ho ex-marine - at least not one of Gibbs generation, would find Abby attractive in a sexual sense? Especially since none of her tattoos were of ships or aquatic mammals or anything of that nature?

Men, thought Ziva. So confusing.

McGee was thinking that Abby had gazed deeply into the eyes of Tony, Ziva and Gibbs, and hadn't given _him _so much as a look or a wave! He felt a little hurt by that. Her character's death in his next book was going to be particularly gruesome, he decided petulantly. Then he grinned. She'd like that. He'd get a kiss out of _that_, he was sure!

As far as Tony was concerned, Mark's stratagem at his exit, with the coffee cup, hadn't worked .

He couldn't forget that reaction of Mark's when he'd said, "Who are you and what have you done with the real Gibbs?" Tony was good at reading people's reactions and that had been a _guilty _reaction.

But how could that man in Gibbs' shoes be an impostor? He looked _exactly _like Gibbs, he sounded _exactly _like Gibbs...but he sure didn't drink like Gibbs...

Tony rubbed his face with his hands. He'd have to find out. The question was...how to do it?

II.

Pauley and Mark waited until they'd gotten into the innermost part of her sanctum, with the glass door closed, before they spoke.

Then Pauley said irrespressibly, "Oh, God, Mark, isn't this so cool! I can't believe it! We're actually in NCIS-land!"

"How long have you been...uh...?"

"Just about half-an-hour or so. I was in my house, reading a book. I got up to get some lunch, there was this tremendous pain in my head, and next thing I knew I was here, in the lab! I could _not _believe my eyes."

"And you're happy about this, are you?"

"Well, du-uh! Of course! Oh! Mark...oh... how long have you been...?"

"Two days, Pauley. _More _than two days. And I can't...there's no reasonable explanation for this...I thought I'd gone insane."

"Don't think of it that way at all," said Pauley in typical Abbs fashion, bringing up both hands and shaking him by the shoulders. "We've been transferred into a parallel universe, where the NCIS universe really exists. Easy."

Mark grinned despite himself. "Okay, Pauley. I'll grant you the fact that we're not insane, we've just been transferred into a parallel universe. But here's two important questions. _How _did it happen, and more importantly, _how _do we get back?"

Pauley paced up and down a couple of times, beating her fists together gently under her chin. Then she snapped her fingers.

"Obvious, Mark. _Quantum Leap_."

"The TV show?"

"Exactly. We've been brought here by some mystical force to do something. Save somebody, or something. And as soon as we do that, wham bam thank you ma'am, we'll pop back into our real universe!"

Mark laughed, a little weakly. "That sounds good, Pauley, but come on. What could _I_ do here, that the real Gibbs couldn't do ten times better? And even though you've got a degree in forensics yourself, are you really better than Abbs would be at solving something?"

Pauley shrugged. "Well, it must not be our investigative skills that are needed here, but our interpersonal skills. Now me, I'm the same everywhere," she grinned, "but you...you get along with everybody about a hundred times better than Gibbs would. Maybe you have to be nice to somebody that Gibbs wouldn't be nice to."

Mark did indeed, to put it in Pauley's parlance, feel a hundred times better than he had just thirty minutes ago. Pauley's matter-of-fact acceptance of their predicament was refreshing and reassuring.

But to be transported into this alternative universe, if such it was, just to be _nice _to someone? That couldn't be it. It had to be something more serious than that...

III.

Tony DiNozzo rested his face in his hands. He'd just completed a search of UCLA's football database. No one named Jethro Leroy Gibbs had ever played football for UCLA, let alone quarterback.

Come to that, no one named Jethro Leroy Gibbs had ever played football for any college. Gibbs had gone into the marines right after high school.

"Maybe Gibbs was just yanking that guy's chain," he thought, hopefully, but hope was snuffed out as Tony continued to think.

That man wasn't Gibbs, that was all there was to it.

So _who _was he, and where the hell was Gibbs, and what was _he _going to do now?


	5. Chapter 5

**II. More People Out There**

Part IV

_**Let us go back in time and space. It's not supposed to be done. Oh, no, it's not supposed to be done. But Gamma is curious and what the Great One doesn't know....**_

I.

It's three days ago, and Mark Harmon is playing flag football with several of his friends, including Michael Weatherly and Cote de Pablo from his television show, _NCIS_.

Francesca, aka Frankie, juked around the pitifully inept protection of the center, Jeff, and brought Mark down to the ground, where he hit his head.

Not very hard, but _the people out there _chose that moment to Charge him, and all of a sudden Mark Harmon was no longer on the ground but transferred into a different dimension where the world of the NCIS television program existed for real.

And on the ground in his place... was Special Agent Gibbs.

Gibbs blinked away the dazzling white light blinding him, and then, still on his back, froze. What the hell?

He'd been throwing spirals to Ziva and Tony in an otherwise deserted field, and now all of a sudden in addition to Ziva and Tony there was a crowd of people circled around him, looking at him.

"You okay, Mark?" asked a beautiful black woman, bending over him, laughing.

"I...I'm not sure."

"C'mon, Mark, this is delay of game," said Tony DiNozzo, also laughing. "You're trying to get a sympathy do over, aren'tcha?"

Gibbs rose to his feet and gave DiNozzo one of his patented glares.

"Uh, Mark?" said DiNozzo. "What's the matter?"

"Why do you keep calling me _Mark_, DiNozzo?" Gibbs said irritably.

"Uh...what?" said DiNozzo, replacing his smile with a sober face in an instant, as was his wont.

"He's _Mister _Harmon to you, Mike," the black woman laughed at him.

"Hey, it wasn't me who knocked him down in a game of flag football, Frankie!"

Gibbs wiped a hand over his face. His head was pounding and he was feeling very confused. Why was everyone calling him Mark? Where'd they all come from so quickly, also? What the hell was going on?

"Jesus, Mark, I'm sorry," the black woman said, concern replacing the amusement on her face, as she touched his arm. "You look like you have a concussion, or something. I'd better drive you to the doctor."

"No, I'm fine, don't worry about it. I'll just sit over here and have a beer. You guys carry on."

Gibbs had seen the cooler by the bench out of the corner of his eye. He walked over to it now, opened it up, and as he'd expected, found bottles of beer and cans of pop inside. He picked up a beer, shook off the ice, twisted off the cap, and drank long and deep.

He looked at DiNozzo and Ziva, who were not participating in the scrimmage on the field, but rather talking amongst themselves...and looking at him while they were doing it. Then they came over to him.

"Uh...Mark," said Ziva. "You called Mike....DiNozzo."

Gibbs looked at Ziva. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she wore black sweats - nothing like what she'd been wearing a few minutes ago when he'd been throwing spirals. And DiNozzo, the same. Instead of his Property of Ohio State sweatshirt, he was wearing a t-shirt. And it was hot, and muggy.

And where the hell was the DC skyline? Where was the capitol building?

"Mark," said Ziva, "I think we'd better drive you home." (Despite Cote's adventure of a few days ago, when _she _had been Charged by_ the people out there_, she remembered none of it. That strange event had faded from her mind within seconds, just as a dream disappears once you wake up, snatch at it desperately though you may...)

"DiNozzo. Ziva. What's going on? Why do you keep calling me Mark? What kind of a game are you playing?"

DiNozzo and Ziva exchanged glances.

"You're name is Mark Harmon," DiNozzo said, softly. "You're an actor, and you play the role of Gibbs in a TV show called _NCIS_. I play Tony DiNozzo, but my real name is Michael Weatherly. Look."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, and showed Gibbs his driver's license. Gibbs pulled it out of its holder and looked at it... then he handed it back to ...Michael Weatherly, and pulled out his own wallet. He looked at the driver's license. Mark Harmon. An address in California.

He looked through the wallet. Photos of a woman he didn't recognize. One of him, the woman, and two little boys, in a family photo pose. Several of two boys, in various age stages...each one of them looked a little bit like him...as if they were his sons. Gibbs blinked wetness out of his eyes.

He dropped the wallet and buried his face in his hands. Had he hit his head? Was he hallucinating? Or was he having a psychotic episode?

"C'mon, Mark, we're going to drive you home."

"No." Gibbs snapped. "Not home." He couldn't face a wife he didn't know, two sons he wouldn't recognize.

"Okay, okay, not your home, my home," said...the man calling himself Michael Weatherly. "Cote, you want to come along?"

"Of course, Mike" said Ziva... Cote?... "I'll just go let the others know we're leaving."

Gibbs walked with Mike toward a street lined with parked cars.

"Mark...you should let us take you to a doctor...you must've bumped your head."

Gibbs turned on him. "No doctor. Listen, DiN... Mike. I appreciate I seem to be acting kind of weird, but I'm asking you as a favor. I just need to go somewhere to think."

"Hey, Mark, no problem. Like I said, we'll go to my house. Kick back with a few beers. I've got DVDs of our show, I'll fire 'em up. You'll remember what's what in no time."

"Okay, Mike," said Zi–Cote, returning. "I've told 'em Mark is fine, just a bit woozy, and we're going over to your place to chill out. And I told them not to say anything about this to Pam, either."

.._._told_ 'em_, thought Gibbs. _Chill out_? If anything could really have convinced him that this woman was not Ziva, that would be it. Ziva didn't talk like that. But she had the accent down, she looked exactly like Ziva... that Michael Weatherly guy looked and sounded exactly like DiNozzo...jesus.

As they drove through the city, Gibbs sat in the back seat, thinking hard. Either he was having a psychotic episode, or he was being played. Those were the only two options. The nonsense of them being actors - that was just a joke. No one would try to play him with a far-fetched story like that. So he must be having a psychotic episode.

Well...maybe psychotic wasn't the right word. He didn't feel like going around and killing anybody or everybody. He didn't think anybody - except the usual suspects - were circling around trying to kill him, and that he'd have to take them out in a pre-emptive strike before hand.

So...he _wasn't _having a psychotic episode. He was just having some kind of harmless hallucination, due to a blow on the head. He'd go with these people to their house, knock back a few beers, and start seeing things the way they really were.

II.

"Okay, Mark..." began Mike as he brought the car to a halt in the driveway of his home.

"Stop calling me Mark," Gibbs said brusquely. "The name's Gibbs."

"Right, sorry, Gibbs. Let's go in. Cote, I'm going to get us some drinks. You want to cue up the DVD?"

"Sure."

Gibbs followed...Cote...what kind of name was that? Sounded Spanish.. into a luxuriously appointed living room. This guy Mike certainly had money, and liked to spend it.

"Have a seat...Gibbs," said Cote. He sat down and stared up at her, and saw her staring at him intently. It was she who blinked first. She turned away and went to a bookcase, which seemed to be entirely full of DVD cases. That'd be Tony for you...and apparently Michael Weatherly as well.

She picked out the first DVD in a row, stared at it for a few seconds, then put it back and moved over two more cases.

Mike came in at that second, the necks of three beer bottles grasped in between his fingers. He handed one to Cote, one to him, and set down with the other one himself.

"You're staring with Episode One, Season One?" he asked Cote.

"No," she replied. "I thought...best not. How about Season Three, episode four. My debut episode as part of the team. 'Silver War.'"

"Yeah...or wait a minute." Mike snapped his fingers. "Why not just show him the 'Making of NCIS', on the first dis of the first seasonk. The one where _he's _talking about the show. That ought to snap him out of it!"

"No," said Gibbs. "I want to see this "Silver War."

So they turned on "Silver War." And after that came "Switch" and then "The Voyeurs' Web" and so on. And each one, all the action happened exactly as it _had _happened, except conflated into 45 minutes. And at the beginning and end of each episode, the names of actors superimposed over the faces he knew so well.

And as the shows unrolled, Mike kept bringing out the beers, and the time rolled by, until finally his cell phone went off.

Automatically, Gibbs pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open. The name on the ID was Pam. Pam..... oh, yeah...this Mark Harmon's wife.

Crap.

"Hello. Pam."

"Mark, for goodness sake, are you okay? Frankie called me an hour ago, told me what happened..."

"It's okay, Pam. I'm at...Mike's. I..."

Mike took the phone from his hand, and Gibbs let him.

"Hi, Pam, it's Mike," said Mike. "Here's the thing. I had an argument with Amelia today, about the next time I'd get to see my son August, you know... yeah, I know you know!.... but we've been sitting here and Mark's been letting me vent and we've had too many beers, so he's going to stay here tonight and sleep it off, and I'll be driving him over to your house in the morning."

"But, Mike, is he oka?. Frankie said..."

"Yeah, he's fine. He was woozy for a minutes earlier today, yeah, but like I said, then I had that argument..."

"Okay, Mike. Let me talk to him, please."

Mike handed the phone back to Gibbs, who spoke into it, "Hi, Pam. Yeah...better safe than sorry. See you tomorrow..... I...I love you too."

He snapped the phone shut, then looked over at Mike. "Thanks for that," he said.

"No problem. And anyway, you're going to have to stay here. I'll go make up the spare room." He turned and looked at Cote.

"Cote...you've been knocking 'em back pretty good, too. Not to mention the fact that you left your car at the field. I'll make up the other spare room for you, okay?"

"Thanks, Mike."

"How many spare rooms does he have?" Gibbs asked as Mike left the room.

"Just two," said Cote with a smile. Then the smile faded. "So...you don't remember....you're still Gibbs?"

"I'm still Gibbs."

For some reason, Cote believed him. Not that he didn't remember that he was Gibbs, but that he _was _Gibbs. She didn't know why she thought this was possible, she just did. Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she felt warmth spreading through her as she gazed at him.

Mark Harmon and Pam Dawber were the perfect couple...and she'd never have presumed to try to cut him out with his wife, not only because she wasn't a man-stealer but because she knew how deeply they were in love....but this man sitting in front of her...it couldn't be possible but it was...he _was _Gibbs...

And she'd always had a secret liking for Gibbs...

Gibbs felt the heat between them as well... He was a one-woman man when he had a woman...but this Pam Dawber was not his wife and he'd be waking up sooner or later...and he really needed a woman's touch right now.

Mike returned to the room. "Okay, they're all set. You guys ready to..."

"Yeah," said Gibbs. He got up, and extended a hand. "Thanks for your hospitality, Mike...but I have every confidence I'll wake up tomorrow back where I'm supposed to be, and you'll be DiNozzo like _you're _supposed to be."

"I...I hope so," he said.

"I'll turn in too," Cote said.

So Mike showed Gibbs to his door, and Gibbs went inside and looked around. There was another door, which led to a bathroom, and there was a toothbrush and a shaver there. Gibbs brushed his teeth, and washed his face, and took off his shirt as he returned to the bedroom.

He looked down at his arms and chest and belly...not quite the muscle tone he was used to...no...don't go there...he was tired, that was all...

There was a soft knock on the door.

Gibbs heart leapt. He'd hoped she'd come.

He opened the door, silently stepped back and let her enter.

She wasn't "Cote," Gibbs thought to himself as he stepped close to her and placed his hands on her hips. She couldn't be. She was Ziva - beautiful, charming, deadly - and for this one night, he could have her...

He kissed her, gently, and she responded as gently. Her eyes were open...he gazed into them as he kissed her. Then he took hold of her sweatshirt and raised it over her head as she lifted her arms to help him, and his hands were unhooking her bra and cupping her breasts...then they were maneuvering back towards the bed...and she was positioning herself on top...

_**"Alpha! What are they doing?"**_

_**"I ... I don't know! Are they ill?"**_

_**"Oh, my goodness. I don't think they're ill...they appear to be enjoying themselves."**_

_**"Oh...dear...are they supposed to be doing that? My, she's flexible."**_

_**"Oh, my goodness. If the Great One hears of this..."**_


	6. Chapter 6

**II. More People Out There**

Part V

I.

Pauley Perrette and Mark Harmon had sat in Abby Sciuto's innermost sanctum for the last hour, eating Little Debbie Snack Cakes and discussing their situation.

"Well, Pauley," said Mark, "I'm feeling a lot better now. I was coming close to losing it this morning, I have to admit it. I thought I was going crazy."

"Not a problem, Gibbs," Pauley said with a grin. "I've got to call you Gibbs and you've got to call me Abby, remember."

"Yeah, yeah," Mark said with a grin of his own. "Abby. Now...I've got to go back up there and act like Gibbs."

"Yeah...it'll be the greatest acting performance of your career!"

"You think you're joking? But what about you?"

"Oh, I can bluff my way through, down here. I know how to use most of the equipment, and if something goes hinky I can always call McGee down to help me." Pauley paused for a second, thinking, then grinned. "In fact, it might be kind of fun to talk to McGee..."

"Hold on, there, girl. I mean Abby. Let's not go overboard here. Remember that anything you do here could come back to haunt the real Abby, always assuming you're right and we're going to get back to our right places after we do...whatever it is we're supposed to do."

Pauley grimaced, but nodded. "You're right, of course. Don't worry, Gibbs, I'll behave myself."

"Okay. Well...I guess I'd better go make my entrance."

II.

Mark grabbed a last Little Debbie and munched on it as he stepped into the elevator. The doors slid open on the main floor and he walked out and headed to his desk, in full Gibbs mode.

"What, Boss, no coffee?" said Tony DiNozzo.

"You have an obsession with my coffee, DiNozzo?" Mark demanded as he circled his desk and sat down.

"No, Boss," Tony said quickly.

"That's too bad. Because if you were, you could go out and get me one while I get caught up on my email."

"On it, Boss!" Tony said, jumping to his feet.

Ziva looked after his bustling form with a slight smile, then returned to the files of paper on her desk.

McGee got up from his desk, coughed, and said, "Boss...you told me to remind you..."

Gibbs recognized his cue. "Remind me of what, McGee?"

"That package...you got on Saturday..."

"Oh. Right." In truth, he had forgotten about it. He'd hoped...and expected...that he'd be back where he belonged by now.

Mark pulled the package out of the drawer and withdrew the scroll from it again. Looking at it now, when he was functioning on all cylinders, it still didn't mean anything to him. Why would someone send it to him..that is, Gibbs, and say it was urgent?

"Okay, McGee, make yourself useful," Mark said. "See if you can't track down what this scroll is supposed to be depicting, and then...take it down to Abby and have her analyze it." Take _that_, Pauley!

"Analyze it for what, Boss?"

"Well, to see how old it is, for a start, McGee." said Mark impatiently. "What it's made of, and if what it's made from will tell us where it came from. Stuff like that."

"Of course. Got it, Boss."

Mark then turned on his computer, and waited for it to boot up. Uh oh...he thought as he waited...there was that one episode, where Fornell had commented on him not having his machine password protected...if the real Gibbs had taken that to heart...

But not so, the screen and all its little doodads came up with no problem.

Mark tapped his fingers on the desk for a few seconds. What would happen, he wondered, if he pulled up the IMDb and looked up actor Mark Harmon. Would he exist here, in this world? Would Pam exist...?

He decided he didn't want to find out.

He pulled up his email, and saw with dismay that the inbox contained over 20 messages. He'd been joking with that bit about checking his email...but here it was...Well, he'd better read them...who knew when a sender of one of them might not come here personally to talk to him if he didn't receive a reply.

"Here's your coffee, Boss," he heard dimly, and he raised a hand in acknowledgment.

_My god this is boring_, Mark thought a couple of hours later. When he'd first started the day he'd hoped that no crimes would come up, now he found himself wishing that something would pop. People who watched the show always had the impression that murders were happening every day, and solved in 24 hours... He remembered a rather famous quote from Raymond Burr regarding Perry Mason...when asked why he'd never lost a case. "But madam, you only see the cases I try on Thursday nights."

Well, he found himself wishing it was Tuesday and something would happen...

_Not _a murder, he thought to himself. But _something_, where I can go and be nice to _someone_, so I can get the hell out of here.

III.

After Mark had left her sanctum, Pauley amused herself by walking around admiring all the equipment that was hers, all hers, and ensuring that she did indeed no how to operate them...or at least, how to turn them on.

But her mind was elsewhere. Someone...or something....had missed a great opportunity, she thought. She remembered a conversation she and McGee had been having...which episode had it been in...oh yeah, "Road Kill," when McGee had asked her who she thought could beat Gibbs in a fight, and he'd said Gibbs (because Gibbs had appeared behind them), and she'd gone off into a riff about whether it should be an 'evil twin' or a Gibbs clone...and wouldn't that have been so cool...if Mark had been brought in to meet the real Gibbs and they'd have had to fight...

Of course Mark was an actor who'd had a bit of martial arts training and Gibbs was a marine who knew how to snap someone's neck in any number of different ways...no, Mark vs Gibbs wasn't fair...but how about if they....whoever _they _were... could create an evil twin of Gibbs? Now that's a fight she'd pay to see...

IV.

Tony DiNozzo was not a happy man. In his mind's eye, all he could see were images of Gibbs in a cell...or dead...while his impersonator sat so calmly at his desk slurping coffee.

Or was he just imagining things? Maybe that bump on the head Gibbs had had somewhere, that he wasn't talking about, had just scrambled his brains for a while. Scrambled brains...maybe it _was _Gibbs, but he'd been brainwashed? Like in _The Manchurian Candidate_? Not the newer one, with Denzel Washington that had sucked, but the great one with Laurence Harvey and Angela Lansbury?

Jesus. Tony buried his head in his hands. That type of stuff didn't happen to _Gibbs_!

But what if it had?

He watched as Gibbs got up from his desk, tossed his coffee cup into the garbage, and strode from the room. He looked around. McGee had left a few minutes ago to go down to Abby's lab, and Ziva had gone to lunch.

Tony darted out from behind his desk, around Gibbs', and plucked the coffee cup out of the trash with the tiniest of grips on its rim - just the way he'd delivered it in the first place.

It was possible to get fingerprints off styrofoam. Not a lot of people knew that.

Molybdenum disulphide suspension would do the trick, or mercury powder.

He'd go in to Abby's lab later on tonight, when she was safely gone, and bring up the prints. (He knew that if he asked her to pull up the prints herself, but then took them away rather than let her run them through the system, she'd bombard him with questions, which he didn't want to have to bother with.)

And once he got the prints, he'd run them through the department's database, and see if they matched Gibbs.

And if they didn't match...he and that little piece of ... would have a little talk.

Tony cracked his knuckles. Yeah. A little talk.

V.

Mark returned to his desk, bearing a coffee cup loaded with water, and saw the flashing light on the phone set. He dialed into the system, tensely.

But, no. No call of any crime, anywhere. Instead just the Director's assistant letting him know he'd been seconded to a meeting the following Monday with someone named Martine Ketch, a Regulator from the Royal Navy, whatever the hell a Regulator was. Well, please God Gibbs would be back in time to handle _that_...

Mark dropped the receiver back into the cradle in disgust.

Then his cellphone rang.

Mark dug it out and flipped it open. Ah, this was promising, he thought as he read the name on the ID.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

After several seconds listening, he said, "Right, we'll be there." and flipped the phone shut.

"Okay, everybody, let's go," he barked. "We've got an appearance at Oceana."

"An a-ppearance?" queried Ziva. "Don't you mean _dis_appearance? "

"Nope, said Mark. "A-ppearance."

"Of whom? Man? Wife? Family?"

"Plane," said Gibbs, "grabbing his gear" out of his desk as he'd done so many times in the past. "McGee, Ziva, in the van." he said, tossing the keys to McGee. "Tony, you're with me."

VI.

Mark sat beside Tony as he drove expertly through the traffic toward Oceana Naval Base in Norfolk, Virginia. He knew he had to do something about Tony - the guy was having doubts. And considering the kind of work they were engaged in.... well, not _him _but Gibbs and his team – Tony couldn't afford to have any doubts in his leader, and vice versa.

"Do you think we have squirrels in the office, DiNozzo?" he asked casually, gazing out the windshield.

"Squirrels, boss? Don't know what you're talking about." said Tony.

"Well, it was a funny thing. I threw my coffee cup in the garbage this morning...and when I came back an hour later, that cup was gone."

"Maybe it was McGee," Tony suggested in his straight-faced way. "I think he's starting a styrofoam collection."

"That must be it. Because no one would go through all the bother of trying to check my fingerprints, when they could just tag along with me as I get my retina scanned to enter practically every room in the place."

"Retina scan," Tony murmured, chagrined. "I should have thought of that."

"Yes, you should...but I guess that's your old cop training coming through, DiNozzo. All they ever think about is fingerprints."

Tony drove on for some minutes in silence, stealing a sideways glance at Mark every now and then.

"It's just...UCLA," he said apologetically.

Mark turned his blue eyes on DiNozzo.

"What about UCLA? _The _best university in the country?"

"Well..you said you played for them. But you didn't."

"I say a lot of things when I'm playing football, DiNozzo. Don't you?"

"Well, yeah, boss._ I_ say those kinds of things. But I didn't think _you'd _say those kinds of things."

"Every guy says those kinds of things, DiNozzo."

"That's true, Boss."

They continued the drive in silence.

_Almost, I'm convinced_, thought Tony.

They finally arrived at Oceana, driving through the security gates and coming to a halt in front of the military police office.

Tony got out of his side of the car, Mark out of the other.

_There's one way to be sure_, thought Tony. He gritted his teeth. If he was right, he was right. If he was wrong...well, it was a far, far better thing he did...

As Mark came around the side of the car, Tony said, "Put 'em up, Boss." It was the only warning he gave. He then lifted his arm and aimed an overhand right at his boss's jaw, as hard and fast as he could.

Mark had the reflexes of a lifelong athlete, and besides, he'd played this scene before. He reacted instantly, sawying aside, clamping Tony's arm under _his _right arm, and punching him in the chin, lightly, with his left. He then swept his leg behind DiNozzo's, breaking his balance, and lowering him to the ground.

A carbon copy of the choreography from the first few minutes of "The Boneyard"...

"You looking for more fighting lessons, DiNozzo?" Mark asked, with his left hand pressed hard against Tony's throat.

Tony grinned up at him. Mark stood up, extending his hand to help Tony to his feet. As he pulled, his foot slipped out from under him and he fell backward...hitting his head.

_**Now**_.

VII.

The ways of the Televinvisichronomicon are not linear.

Thus, Gibbs, who had spent only a little under 24 hours in the world of Mark Harmon, and who was still sleeping next to Cote de Pablo, opened his eyes to find himself standing up, throwing spirals to Ziva and DiNozzo, at the exact same instant he had been sucked out of that reality...while simultaneously Mark Harmon blinked up at Frankie, Mike and Cote.

"Mark, are you okay?" asked Frankie with concern.

Mark blinked up at her, as he allowed Mike and Cote to help haul him to his feet.

He stared around at the scenery, at the guys around him, then looked closely at Mike and Cote.

"I just had... the most weird-ass dream..." he said...

"What dream? You were on your back for two seconds!"

Mark shrugged, as the memories already started to fade away.

"Yeah, weird. Hey, Frankie, we're playing flag football, ya know!"

And at the same time, Pauley Perrette, who had been at home and who had stood up to get a book, suddenly wobbled, felt nauseous, blinked, and decided she'd better have some chocolate before she did anything else.

_**"Did the timelines not just become intertwined, Gamma?"**_

_**"Merely compressed at different speeds, Alpha. Nothing to worry about. Is that not so, Oh Great One?"**_

_**"Perhaps so, Alpha. More experimentation will be necessary in future."**_

_**Alpha and Gamma exchanged looks with each other, then surreptitiously each raised an appendage and exchanged the equivalent of "high fives." **_

_**"Yes, Oh Great One. Much more experimentation will be needed."**_

**AUTHORS NOTE**

1. This story is now complete. (I thought about getting Abby as Pauley into the mix, but that will have to wait for another story!)

2. I'll take up the sequel, in a separate file, after the New Year. It'll be Michael Weatherly turn first.

3. Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed the chapters. Your encouragement helped fuel the fire of creativity.


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